Spring Fling

by Joanie Shawhan, RN

I do not send Christmas letters,
not because I am lazy or too busy,
but I rarely have anything newsworthy
to share. I am unable to testify
to the exploits of talented, gifted, brilliant,
amazing, or perfect children, as I
have none. I am not the proud owner of
a clever pet, such as a chocolate lab that
consumed a string of popcorn from the
Christmas tree and carefully rearranged
the cranberry strand over the bare boughs.

However, this particular year a Christmas
letter was in order. There was no
delicate way to launch the following
bomb: “Dear friends, I have cancer. In
the last six weeks, I have endured numerous
tests, surgery to remove the
offending parts, a grueling round of
chemotherapy, and shaved my head.
I hope you have had a wonderful year.
Merry Christmas!”

I sent this letter to my college friends.
We had maintained sporadic contact for
25 years before we planned our first
reunion. We had enjoyed our time together
as we laughed, reminisced, and
caught up on the past; hence, it evolved
into an annual event.

I was unaware that I had forgotten to
cover my bald head.

This spring, we scheduled our reunion
around the best days in my chemotherapy
cycle. We rented a spacious home
with a hot tub in a quaint town that provided
extensive shopping opportunities.
In addition to my normal over-packing,
I included an assortment of hats and
wigs. I was self-conscious of my bald
head and determined to keep it covered.

My Google directions wound me
along narrow dirt roads, through pungent
pasturelands dotted with grazing
cattle. Street signs were nearly nonexistent.
I finally meandered into the
secluded subdivision of our luxury residence.
The home flaunted cathedral
ceilings, a stone fireplace, oak flooring
and trim. Floor to ceiling windows
overlooked a wooded area, home to redcrested
woodpeckers, gray squirrels, and
white-tailed deer. A small lake situated
beyond the woods echoed our chatter
and laughter from the hot tub that evening.
I had pulled a white cap trimmed
with navy lace over my head.

The following day, rain drizzled intermittently
from gray skies as we strode
the cobblestone sidewalks of the old
town shopping district. A curly lavender
wig caught my eye as I browsed the
shop windows. A gray-bearded shopkeeper
greeted us as we stepped into the
dimly lit store. The stout man plucked
the wig from its stand and handed it to
me. I stood before an antique mirror
and carefully pulled off my wig. I repositioned
my knit skullcap, tugged
the lavender wig over my head, and
rearranged the curls. The shopkeeper
joined in as we howled with laughter.
The purple wig was my prized purchase.
That evening
we grilled steaks
amidst a driving
rain, oblivious
to the tornado
warnings. After
dinner, donned
in warm robes
and fuzzy slippers,
we lounged
around the fireplace,
warmed
by the crackling blaze. I was unaware
that I had forgotten to cover my bald
head until a chilly breeze brushed my
scalp. I shot a quick glance at each face
that glowed in the light from the flickering
flames. No shocked expressions.
No one seemed to notice.

Even without hair, I was the same
person. We were the same people. I discovered
that our friendship, cemented in
the midst of dorm life, remained strong.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Joanie Shawhan, an ovarian
cancer survivor, is a registered nurse at UW
Health in Madison, WI.

This article was published in Coping® with Cancer magazine,
March/April
2011.